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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772015">Echo</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/pseuds/under_my_blue_umbrella'>under_my_blue_umbrella</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers Series - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Don't read if you haven't read the novels yet and don't want to know how it all ends, Gen, MAJOR SPOILERS for The Man In The Iron Mask!!!, Sequel, at least that's my take on it, keeping it vague for spoiler reasons, or rather a fic of redemption, sort of a fix-it fic, what happened after the books ended</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:00:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/pseuds/under_my_blue_umbrella</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years after the events of "The Man In The Iron Mask", Cardinal d'Alméda receives a visitor.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><em>WARNING: This story contains MAJOR SPOILERS including MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS for "The Man In The Iron Mask" by Alexandre Dumas!!!</em><br/>If you haven't read the Musketeers saga yet and intend on doing so without being spoiled, skip this fic!!!</p><p> </p><p>After finishing the final Musketeers novel, "The Man In The Iron Mask", my grieving, Musketeer-missing brain insisted the story did not <em>quite</em> end there. This is what became of it - and of a seed @libraryv planted in my head.</p><p>Although leaning predominantly on the novels by Alexandre Dumas, I couldn't help infusing the characters with tiny traces of the BBC Musketeers. And while I didn't even <em>attempt</em> to copy Dumas' style and flourish, this little story is meant as a tribute to The King Of Romance.</p><p>Oh, and don't beat me up on historical accuracy. Dumas took his liberties, and so will I.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Turning to the mirror, Aramis reaches up to adjust the crimson cardinal’s cap on his head. More salt than pepper now, his hair has retained its thick, unruly nature, curling over the collar of his cassock, and he has to pin the cap down firmly to keep it in place. Gout has stiffened his fingers a bit lately, and he painfully stretches his hands as he regards himself. Still a slim, stately figure, the crimson sash fitting snugly around his waist, he cannot deny that, at sixty-four, age is finally catching up with him. The scars on his face are blending with the lines that time and worry have carved into it, and his shoulders have lost some of their broadness. For the longest time, he’s prided himself in an exceptionally healthy set of teeth, and they’re still even and white, but an occasional twinge in one of his molars tells him those days may be over soon. Only his eyes have retained their sharpness: He may need spectacles for reading, but he can still shoot the cork off a bottle from thirty steps away if he sets his mind to it.</p><p>Church bells begin to toll outside, and he looks to the window as more bells chime in. It’s a whole chorus which swells across the rooftops of Rome, draping the sleepy noon Vatican in its resounding cloak. It’s June, and the midday heat is not yet sweltering enough to make Aramis break into a sweat, but it will be boiling soon, sending him to find refuge in one of the cool chapels of the Vatican.</p><p>With a last taxing look at himself and a last tug on his collar, he leaves his private chambers, grabbing his prayer book on his way out. Today is one of the days where his soul demands lightening, where dark dreams have driven him out of sleep and old guilt makes his bones heavier than their age. </p><p>It’s not often anymore that he dreams of Porthos. Of those final moments when, in spite of being betrayed, he’d fought at Aramis’ side, <em>for</em> Aramis, until his very last breath. In his sleep, last night, Aramis saw him loom again, the giant stemming his shoulders against the large boulder threatening to crush him - in vain. Aramis saw the large man’s eyes - dark and gentle - trained on him as he scrambled out of the boat and up the beach to help, too late. That final gaze, filled with innocence, haunts him to this day, and no amount of praying has lessened its impact.</p><p>As he walks down an echoing corridor and steps into the sunlight to cross a courtyard, he notices the subdued atmosphere that’s invaded the Vatican’s halls in recent days. Only few of his brothers in faith roam the compound, and whatever conversations are held lack their usual Italian liveliness, words and gestures dimmed to a hush. Behind closed doors, however, Aramis knows the whispering has intensified and trepidation blends with speculation.</p><p>The Pope has been sick for months, and the physicians being summoned to his quarters in escalating frequency have reportedly exhausted their skills. They have resorted to the final, desperate measure of bleeding His Eminence almost daily, and experience tells Aramis the treatment will only hasten the ancient man’s departure instead of preventing it.</p><p>Pushing the doors to the chapel open, its cool marble air a relief, Aramis’ mind runs down the list of candidates that are rumoured to follow in the Pope’s footsteps and stops at his own name. Vanity: it’s not a desirable trait in a man of God, but he’s never managed to quiet it down completely. With his lifetime goal in reach, combining the power of the Jesuit society with that of the Catholic Church, he cannot shake a feeling of awe, and he prides himself in having been the spearhead of this scheme.</p><p>But he also cannot shake the ever-present shadow that Porthos’ death has cast over his achievements. Or the regret that neither of his brothers - Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan - will be at his side in his moment of triumph. <em>If</em> it arrives.</p><p>Gripped by a sudden wave of loneliness, he walks up to the altar steps and kneels. Gaze wandering up to the tortured face of Christ on his cross, his hand reaches for the golden crucifix resting on a chain around his neck. It’s old and worn, worried blank between his fingertips and heavy with memories. Aramis closes his hands around it and prays. </p><p>He’s so entranced by his monotone recital of Latin verse that he only becomes aware of company when Brother Matteo, with a polite clearing of his throat, materialises beside him.</p><p>“Cardinal d'Alméda,” the mousy priest says in quick, nervous Italian. “Your Eminence, apologies for disturbing your prayer, but there’s someone here to see you.”</p><p>Unfolding his hands, Aramis frowns at him. An unexpected visitor? On a Sunday?</p><p>“Who is it?”</p><p>“A musketeer, signore. From Paris.”</p><p>Surprised, Aramis rises from his knees, waving off Matteo’s help. </p><p>“From Paris? What does he want? Does he carry a message from the King?”</p><p>Rapidly, Aramis searches his memory for the content of his latest correspondence with France’s sovereign. Back in His Majesty’s grace after mediating peace between France and Spain, he’s been in close contact with Louis even after moving to Rome. However, he isn’t aware of any matters so pressing they would warrant sending a soldier from the King’s own regiment as a messenger. Has something happened?</p><p>“I cannot say, signore,” Matteo answers hastily. “He only states that he wishes to see you. I told him it’s Sunday, and we aren’t receiving visitors, but he insisted and, quite frankly, he’s a bit… intimidating.” </p><p>Aramis smiles at the expression of awe on the priest’s face. <em>A musketeer</em>. He remembers the brass and aura that comes with wearing the fleur-de-lis uniform, weapons belt and spurs clinking, sky-blue cloak flowing from broad shoulders, wide-brimmed hat canted brazenly on a proud head. <em>It feels like yesterday.</em></p><p>“Let him in,” he tells Matteo.</p><p>“Here?” The priest looks surprised. “Not in your chambers?”</p><p>Aramis smiles indulgently. “Here’s fine, Matteo. He’s a musketeer, not an ambassador. He will not care about pomp and circumstance.”</p><p>“As you wish, Your Eminence.”</p><p>With a bow, the priest retreats and hurries outside. </p><p>Aramis remains behind, and while he picks his prayer book up from the altar steps and places it gently on a pew, while his eyes roam over the stained-glass windows and richly painted ceiling, his mind travels back in time. </p><p>He sees d’Artagnan, young and full of fire, failing to beat him at sword practice - not for lack of skill, but because of impatience. And he sees the older version of him, seasoned and wisened, in his captain’s uniform, but wearing his heart still on his sleeve.</p><p>Athos, always closest with d’Artagnan, appears by his shoulder, regal and elegant as ever. Aramis, who hadn’t seen Athos in his final years, only remembers his brother’s unbreakable, unflappable exterior, a musketeer in his late prime. Honour and steadfastness embodied, he cannot imagine the amount of pain it had taken to bring his noble friend to his knees.</p><p>And Porthos. There is always Porthos, laughing, brawling, devouring hearty meals and following each and every of Aramis’ whims with unquestioning loyalty. Forever, he is and will be the one who hurts most. </p><p>Aramis turns when the chapel doors are thrust open with uncommon vigor. Spurs clink on marble as a leather-clad and blue-cloaked figure of impressive height steps inside. Aramis cannot yet see the face cast into shadow by the broad hat.</p><p>“Cardinal d’Alméda?” A young but resonant voice rings out. “Monsieur Aramis?”</p><p>His old <em>nom de guerre</em> makes Aramis start. He hasn’t heard it spoken in years.</p><p>“Who gave you that name, soldier?” 

He squints at the approaching figure in the murky light of the chapel.

</p><p>The musketeer stops in front of Aramis. </p><p>“My mother,” he says and lifts his eyes to gaze directly at him.</p><p>Confused, Aramis stares at the young man. He has to be in his mid-twenties. A black, pointy beard covers the lower half of an unlined face as brown as the man’s large hands. Underneath the brim of the hat, tight black curls escape the folds of a bandana. Deep brown eyes look curiously at him. <em>Down</em> at him from a height of more than six feet.</p><p>Aramis swallows.</p><p>“Who are you?” he asks breathlessly. </p><p>Unceremoniously, the musketeer pulls a letter out from his doublet and extends it to Aramis.</p><p>“Read this,” he replies formally. “It will explain what you wish to know.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aramis learns the identity of his visitor.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I apologize for the long wait. I had two surgeries in June, and I had planned to use my recovery time for writing, but instead my tired brain asked for Netflix and sleep.</p><p>It took me going back to work and no longer having much time to write to feel like writing again. 🙄</p><p>And, of course, there will now be an indefinite number of chapters instead of only two. Simply because I have a certain scene in my head that cannot happen without an actual plot unfolding before I can get to it. You know how it is. </p><p>For now, bear with me through all the talking. I have a plan.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tearing his eyes away from the musketeer’s face, Aramis takes the letter and breaks the seal. Nervously, but concealing it, he takes his reading glasses from his pockets and moves away to read the pages by the light of a candelabra. </p><p>
  <em>“Monsieur Aramis”,</em>
</p><p>the letter begins, in a neat, clearly feminine hand, and Aramis is once more surprised by the use of his musketeer name.</p><p>
  <em>“If Porthos stayed true to his word, and I know he will have, you have never heard my name. He promised to keep it a secret. He likewise promised to be there whenever I needed his help and that, in case he could not grant it himself, I could always turn to his best friend for assistance: to the man he used to call Aramis, born Henri d’Herblay, now cardinal in Rome. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>We both know that Porthos, were it in his power, would reach out of the Heavens to take care of the ones he loves, but since that is impossible, and since I have exhausted all other options, I am turning to you in the hope that Porthos was right; that you are willing and able to assist a woman he once loved and would have spent the the rest of his life with if fate had not intervened.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am sending this letter via a special messenger - my son Alexandre. Porthos’ son. Porthos never learned of his existence, but hearing that it is not only my fate which is at stake but also that of Porthos’ only descendant, and seeing him with your own eyes may sway you in our favour and convince you of the sincerity of my request.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please, Monsieur Aramis, listen to what my son has to say. I am desperate, and I have no one else to turn to. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours, sincerely,<br/>
Simone de Sillègue”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Mind reeling, still turned away from his visitor, Aramis folds the letter and lifts his head to the Madonna figurine gazing serenely at him from an alcove.</p><p>
  <em>Can it be?</em>
</p><p>Porthos had been an open book. As a trained soldier, he knew how to keep a secret if ordered to, but he’d never kept any from him. Not to Aramis’ knowledge. But then again, particularly in the many years after resigning from the King’s regiment, they had barely met, except for the occasional, hair-raising adventure usually initiated by the firebrand in their brotherhood, d’Artagnan. With Aramis climbing through the ranks of priesthood, first in various parishes in France, then in Spain, and Porthos retiring to his own estate and surviving two wives, there were many blank spaces in their friendship which could have included a secret love affair and an illegitimate child - and not only on Aramis’ part. </p><p>Still. The thought that Porthos, honest and loyal till death, would have kept this from him? </p><p>“You have doubts.”</p><p>The musketeer’s voice, full and deep for his age, pulls him out of his thoughts.</p><p>Aramis takes off his glasses and turns around.</p><p>“Wouldn’t <em>you</em>?”</p><p>“Probably.” </p><p>His visitor, feet planted in a wide stance, squares his shoulders in a devastatingly familiar fashion. </p><p>“But then again, my mother predicted you would be skeptical. So she gave me this.”</p><p>He reaches behind his back and pulls something from his belt. By reflex, Aramis stiffens and takes a step back, ready to reach for the knife hidden in his cassock. And indeed, when the young musketeer brings his hands around, his open palms hold a dagger, but safely tucked in its sheath and presented to him like a gift.</p><p>“Mother said Porthos left this with her. That you would recognize it.”</p><p>Aramis takes the weapon and turns it in his hands. Even without his glasses, he can see the engravings on its sheath.</p><p>
  <em>Dear God.</em>
</p><p>Of course he recognizes that particular weapon. How could he not, having once pulled it out of Porthos’ heaving chest. </p><p>They had been far from Paris, on Spanish soil, when a patrol had discovered them and Porthos had ended up with that cursed blade buried deep between his ribs. Somehow, Aramis had got them back across the border, Porthos swearing and groaning around the dagger still protruding from his chest while bleeding all over Aramis. Once on safe ground, the blade had to come out, and in the candlelight of a small church’s vestry, Porthos stretched out on the stone floor under his shaking hands, Aramis had prayed that he was saving his best friend instead of killing him.</p><p>He still remembers the slurping sound as he’d dislodged the blade; the roar from Porthos’ mouth; the blood welling between his fingers as he’d desperately tried to staunch it. And his amazement when, against all odds, Porthos had survived the next few hours, then the next night, the next day and eventually made it home to Paris alive and on the mend.</p><p>Back at the garrison, on the occasion of his return to duty, Aramis had given Porthos the dagger, with a new sheath made, matching the ornate, red-gold hilt and with the word ‘suerte’ engraved on it. For the rest of their shared musketeer days, Porthos had carried the poignard in his weapons belt. It had been his lucky charm. A token of their friendship. And more than once, Porthos had paid Aramis back by saving his life with the same dagger that almost killed him.</p><p>“Do you recognize it?”</p><p>The musketeer - <em>Alexandre</em>, was it? - is studying him, trying to read him. And it appears that, after decades of practice, even a shock like this cannot chase the carefully cultivated mask of neutrality from Aramis’ face. He feels the drumbeat of his heart in his chest, and yet he manages to look composed.</p><p>It certainly isn’t easy. Not with the young man’s brow creasing into a question mark that he’s seen appear on a similar, older face, one with a scar running across his left eye. Doubt still churns in Aramis’ mind, but the more he looks, the more striking the resemblance becomes. The musketeer’s body is leaner, his skin lighter, and his features are finer than those of Porthos du Vallon, but the way he carries himself, and his eyes… The past stares back at Aramis with a  warm brown gaze, truthful and undeniable.</p><p>Aramis swallows. </p><p>“Yes. I recognize it.”</p><p>“Then you believe me?”</p><p>“I... “ Still cradling the dagger, Aramis tries to control his racing thoughts. “How did your mother get by it? There are many ways she could have obtained it. Someone could have stolen it from Monsieur du Vallon.”</p><p>His mind is still rebelling against the truth that is staring him straight in the face.</p><p>The musketeer dips his chin and scowls indignantly, eyes darkening. A surge of <em>déjà vu</em> almost makes Aramis gasp.</p><p>“If my father was anything like the man my mother described to me,” the soldier says sharply, “he never would’ve let anyone take that weapon from him. And if you were as good a friend to him as he claimed, you would know that.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “And,” he adds, “my mother wasn’t a thief. Neither did she consort with any.”</p><p>
  <em>That pride. That defiance.</em>
</p><p>
 Aramis’ mouth goes dry. Beat by beat, his heart is accepting what his eyes have been confirming all along. The letter. The dagger. The echo in the young man’s looks and in the way he moves.
</p><p>
  <em>This is Porthos’ son.</em>
  
</p><p>
 “I apologize,” Aramis says respectfully, his cool veneer flickering. “I did not mean any insult. I’m certain your mother is an honorable woman.” Grappling for composure, he taps the letter in his hand with the tip of Porthos’ dagger. “But what exactly is it she expects me to do? What is the nature of her predicament?”
</p><p>
 The soldier’s face brightens.
</p><p>
 “You believe me, then? You will help us?”
</p><p>
 With a last evaluating look at the musketeer’s face, with another skip in his heartbeat, Aramis finally nods, and it feels like surrender and release all at once. Unsure what to do now, Aramis looks around, avoiding the young man’s gaze, and he has to suppress the sudden urge to reach out and pull the musketeer against his chest.
</p><p>
 He doesn’t. He collects himself, clears his throat and answers: “I believe you. And if it is within my power, I will help you. Once you tell me what it is you need.”
</p><p>
 The soldier sighs with relief.
</p><p>
 “A royal decree,” he replies, exhaling. “A royal decree that makes my mother the rightful heir and owner of our farm. And which prevents her brother-in-law from taking it from her, now that my father… my <em>step-father</em>... has passed.”
</p><p>
 A list of questions forms in Aramis’ head as he connects the first dots. As shaken as he still is by the day’s revelations, his quicksilver mind is already analyzing the complications implied in his visitor’s request. Careful consideration is in order. But first, he needs more information. And, possibly, something to drink.
</p><p>
 “This sounds like a complicated matter,” he muses out loud. “One we should discuss somewhere more private, and over a bite to eat, after you’ve refreshed yourself, perhaps?”
</p><p>
 The musketeer, for all his elegance, is displaying clear signs of a long and tiresome journey: dust on his hat, boots and cloak, and shadows underneath his eyes.
</p><p>
 “The matter is pressing, sire,” the young man answers impatiently. But then he squints and, licking his lips, continues: “However, I could use a good meal and a cup of wine.”
</p><p>
 As if to confirm his words, the musketeer’s stomach emits an audible growl. 
</p><p>
 Aramis allows himself a tiny smile. Evidently, the young man inherited more from his father than his stature and eyes.
</p><p>
 “It’ll be my pleasure,” he says invitingly and points to the chapel’s exit. “If you will follow me to my private chambers, Monsieur de Sillègue?”
</p><p>
 “Alexandre, please.”
</p><p>
 “Very well then.” Something cold in Aramis’ chest cracks open and grows warmer. “Alexandre. Come along, son.”
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I named Alexandre’s mother ‘Simone de Sillègue’ for a reason. Actually, for two. Can you find them out? </p><p>(Yes, this is an interactive fic. Didn’t I warn you?)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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